


Pipping Red Hot

by palettesofrenaissance



Series: Dancing With a Stranger (visual & performance arts marvel au) [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Peter Quill, Dancer Gamora, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Minor Mantis/Nebula (Marvel), Peter is an asshole but so is Gamora so it all works out, Slice of Life, Two dumb assholes fall in love, and they get stuck working together, second-generation dancer celebrity Gamora is not the best person in the world but neither is Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palettesofrenaissance/pseuds/palettesofrenaissance
Summary: Gamora is the daughter of famed dance stars along with her sister, Nebula. While Nebula is out on vacation with her girlfriend, Gamora becomes the secret muse of an artist who goes by the pseudonym “Star Lord.” (This is broken up into six parts inside.)[ ALTERNATIVELY - An installment inspired by prompts: “I’m an artist and you have a really nice face so would you mind if I drew you?” and “I needed a character model for this painting and you’re the first person I saw in this coffee shop and now you’ve started to notice, shit!” ]
Relationships: Gamora & Nebula (Marvel), Gamora/Peter Quill
Series: Dancing With a Stranger (visual & performance arts marvel au) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320029
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. finally wrote is my first full starmora fic yay!!!!!!!
> 
> 2\. also the longest one chapter story I have written ever in my life. this took over a month to finish. there was a lot of sweat, exertion and tears spent on this. yikes
> 
> 3\. comments are very much appreciated. thanks for reading!!!!
> 
> 4\. this is (obviously) not intended to be an accurate depiction of the probation system or process. or about street artists.
> 
> 5\. I hope everyone had a good holiday <3
> 
> 6\. please enjoy!!!
> 
> xoxo
> 
> \- - -
> 
> edit: I decided to break this into two chapters to not keep this as a very, very long one-chapter story. I don't like reading long chapters like that and I find it difficult, so I safely assume that there are other people out there who do to.

**I.**

There's a man who used to set up an easel and canvas and tools on street corners where he would fill caricature requests from tourists, passersby, and parents with eager, delighted children. He would set up station on his days off, alternating between caricatures, spray paint art, or quick portraits. It started off well when his inspiration and incentive were high. But now after years of struggle due to closing opportunities and work fields, he occasionally does it in coffee shops, on the porches of libraries, or wherever he can fit.

Alternatively, there's a woman he's recently taken a liking in, whom he's seen but has never held a deep fondness for her—but she has a striking profile and brown skin that lights up _perfectly_ in the sunlight, and...she's never ever known him. Barely even memorized his face.

This artist, who signs his name in squiggly, swift lettering, takes precision and care with his muse's portrait. And this woman—the woman who he's repeatedly seen within the shop and approached him with a request for a portrait but who doesn't know him at all—becomes his muse and subject and she has no inkling of it.

The artist plans on presenting the finished product to her but she disappears before he gets a chance to.

And then he sees her on the eight o'clock news.

* * *

It starts like this:

Gamora meets him on the very first day of the summer equinox through a series of mishaps and thievery amidst the summer heat and tortuous mosquito bites and macchiato drinks dropped on the pavement.

Her suntan etches the pattern of her sports bra and 100% cotton athletic tank top onto her shoulders and the crisscrossed straps across her back; her freckles are made prominent on her cheekbones and her hair had been freshly cut in the past week—sleek, and the ends still retaining the fading remnants of red-violet dye that's months old but which she's too lazy and too attached to her length to trim it off. And while underneath the blazing sun's heat, she's glowing, absolutely _radiant_ with determination and _anger_ —it's _seen_ more than it's felt in her fierce glare and posture and grandiose.

And her target—the _thief_ who stole her grandmother's timepiece necklace right from around her neck is barely red-cheeked with exertion, hardly stutters on his feet as he weaves in-between the crowded city sidewalk and Gamora, rudely shoving them past, in pursuit. And she grows _furious_ as he shouts _'Sorry, lady! This isn't personal!'_ over his shoulder for the entire sidewalk-full of passersby to hear. No one aids her; a thirteen-year-old boy is the only one who pulls out his cellphone to capture it all on camera.

And it isn't a particularly clever, or witty, or even a _funny_ insult the thief gave but Gamora still puts some more vigor into her step, charges after him through a crosswalk, and tackles him to the ground.

Well, Gamora _tries_ to tackle him to the ground—after a scuffle and she landing some significant blows and a kick to his stomach, the thief still manages to get up and sprints through a busy street and disappears within citizens on the other side. Gamora's reward are the clunky headphones she manages to snatch from his belt.

Gamora's life is the charm and glamor of a second-generation C-list celebrity: the remnants, the tagged-on expectations, the cautiousness.

Her life is as stale as a specimen underneath a microscope that has gained a sugar crusting from time.

* * *

But the thing is, Gamora _knows_ she's great: She adorns herself in Yves Saint Laurent, sleeps every day in a studio apartment, and doesn't leave her home without her relic clock necklace. Even on lazy days with her hair pulled up messily and walking out the door in an off-the-shoulder Bloomingdale shirt, she doesn't leave without a swipe of mascara and her eyebrows penciled because she may be great but she doesn't let the world forget it either.

The thing is: she knows she's great and she always looks good—"It's the genes," she always states, smirking and smug.

And, people like her; people have always liked her. She's charming, captivating, and she's selectively patient and she's _fun_. She tells this every time she's tracked down on the streets and made the subject of another spontaneous celebrity sidewalk interview. She reiterates it every day in the mirror before walking out the door. She repeats it before she goes to bed.

People like her for the picturesque and transparent characterization created for her on screen, in tabloids, in information web archives. She's liked for what she's told she is, for what she's called.

She's liked for who her _parents were_.

Because, in real life, Gamora is boring and she's dull and she's mean—but she's _popular_ and _spoiled_ and _largely liked_ so she convinces herself that it cancels out all that wrong, and there's absolutely no one and nothing that could ever, ever take that away from her.

This too she tells herself every night in front of her bathroom mirror, wiping her face clean from makeup, the wet wipes moistened by tears.

The thing is that Gamora knows she's great.

She also knows she doesn't have anything of her own to base it on.

* * *

**II.**

When she makes her next trip to her favorite bistro/coffee shop, Gamora is disappointed to find the stationed artist is nowhere to be found. When she asks a barista, she's met with a twinge of a frown broken from his stone-set face, still in work-mode.

"Oh, you mean Star Lord? I haven't seen him."

"Star Lord?"

"His pseudonym, I guess. No one's seen him for, like, a month and a half. My guess is he's finally called an end to it all. ...Sorry Ms. Zen Titan."

Arriving for a hope to uplift her spirits, Gamora floats through the rest of the day within the comforts of her sister's residence. There, she uses Nebula's stream subscriptions to binge-watch passive aggressive sitcoms and eats the rest of her jumbo-sized bag of Boom Chicka Pop kettle corn.

Gamora remembers catching a glimpse of the artist sketching her profile but hadn't been able to ask for his work, his name, or his face. She regrets it now because she planned on purchasing some of his art.

Currently it's after a three-month long on-the-run battle against the paparazzi through the hottest months of the year. There had apparently been some kind of reminiscence trend going on about tabloids checking in (read: invading) the lives of once-popular legends and their living relatives. Because of the times' difference, Gamora wasn't one of the _first_ to be surprised by a stunning camera flash in broad daylight but she's not famous enough that it's unexpected to happen when she's walking down the street in leggings, a tunic tank top, large-rimmed sunglasses, and floppy beach hat. That's when she takes off running.

She'd received an earlier text message of warning by her sister, Nebula, having gotten bombarded while washing her car in her driveway. Gamora now highly suspects inappropriate commentary and innuendos to come in the form of magazine photo captions and TMZ commentary.

* * *

On this humid, hot day, Gamora happens to seek refuge in a small art gallery, successfully and unexpectedly giving the paparazzi the slip. She waits until the mob pass before taking in the building that saved her.

Inside, the walls are decorated with photographs—headshots, body shots, some close up and ambiguous, others extra wide shots and consist mostly of scenery. By the entry door, there's a makeshift sign-in book made out of a weathered, dusty, vintage journal beside a beige colored lamp all on short wooden end table. Strips of film reel are nailed to the wall in an unarranged fashion. Colored stones—small granite river rocks, glass, and some painted—have been super-glued to the wall as a mini mosaic; when Gamora steps back, she sees that they accent the calligraphy on a narrow tapestry hanging on the wall. A weird, homemade welded contraption of mechanical gears and parts sit as an ornament atop a bookshelf that contains different types of cameras and books about landscapes, National Geographic magazines, outdated library books about human anatomy and light refraction. The air smells of a mixture of old building masked by perfume and ink and clay.

Gamora's fingers drift along a picture frames containing a monochrome picture of an Asian woman, her back's tattoo the main focus point of the portrait—large leaves branching from a stalk that winds up her spine to her shoulder blades, her canvas of skin exposed from the deep plunge of her open-back dress. Kaleidoscope replications of herself are miniature reflections around the main photo. The title of this portrait reads " _Mantis leaves._ "

Beside it is a photo of another woman, this one with longer, brighter-colored hair. It's taken at a beach; the woman's back is to the camera and she's so far away from the photographer that she's a small decoration against the landscape.

On tables are art displays of a variety of mediums, all possessing different name-tags: an arch-shaped abstract paperweight sculpture, a collection of fish keychains fashioned from stained glass; Gamora's finger ghosts around the fancy silver stand welded around a delicate ostrich egg.

She doesn't get a chance to explore further because she's then interrupted by an observant woman who begins questioning Gamora's business is here. Then the woman's speech trails as she gives Gamora a once-over, her brain registering, remembering, recognizing, and then she's _excited_ that the daughter of the famous Caribbean dance competitors is _here_ in the art gallery! The woman shares that her name is _Bareet_ then goes on a rant—she has streaks of pink woven into her single French braid and it makes Gamora _roll her eyes_ —about how "inspiring" it must have been to have parents come to The States and to help pave the way for "her people." And then she asks if Gamora is bilingual. And _then_ she bombards Gamora with questions on what it's like being a celebrity. Gamora grinds her teeth and nods and she tries not to be _too mean_ with her responses because she knows to never, ever be seen being rude _in public_. Well, not _too_ rude where the likelihood of being recorded or photographed is high.

"Oh, but if you're here for an artist, sorry but you just missed some," she's informed, and Gamora thinks about her name being _Bareet_ and lightly sneers.

"That's fine. I was just looking anyway." She thinks about the many ways of spelling _Bareet_ and the woman's parents by extension, and Gamora sighs.

"You don't want to stay? I can get you anything—"

"I don't think I'll be coming back," Gamora answers honestly, looking directly into the _Bareet_ 's eyes before peering out the front door and leaving the small gallery.

Gamora intends to keep her word.

* * *

The second time Gamora meets her thief, it's three months later and she doesn't remember his face. But one thing she _does_ retain is her dislike and disapproval of vandalism.

It's while returning home from a block away and while battling the ever-long decision whether to get on a train and ride to anywhere does she come across a man spraying paint on a newly re-painted brick wall. The first thing Gamora notices, like her mind is slow to process, taking in all the details one by one, is that he isn't even _trying_ to hide, out in the open and not in an alleyway or a deserted corner. The second is that he's wearing a very thin and scarily unhelpful cloth tied around his airways.

She unintentionally blurts these thoughts out loud: "What are you doing?"

Of course he doesn't reply, doesn't even _flinch._ He pauses his spraying to give his can a forceful shake, then continues on. Gamora notices the bandages around the knuckles of one hand, the glimpse of a tattoo peeking from beneath his long sleeve. A breeze whisks Gamora's hair and blows the excess spray paint fumes into her direction and into his face. The man coughs terribly.

"Do you _want_ to die?" she asks, neither truly caring nor interested in his answer.

Again, she goes ignored.

Out of pure curiosity, she watches him work.

Moments pass until she speaks again. "That's actually really, really..." She pauses. "Ugly."

This is the push that finally gets the man to stand, whirling around to her, clearly irritated but giving her attention, no less. "You want something, lady?"

Unperturbed, Gamora watches him wipe his hands on a paint-stained cloth pulled from one of his pants' several pockets. "I want to know why're you vandalizing the building."

"What are you? The police?"

"I could be, yeah." It's spoken with the shaky negotiation.

He sees right through it. "You do this to everyone, fun police?" The cloth is securely tied, covering everything below his eyes.

"Just those who encroach on those around them." She's strongly holding her ground still, chin high and knee bent. "And you're becoming a big thorn in my side."

The man's fists aimlessly rise in frustration then rests on his hips. Leaning back slightly, he barks a laugh. "All you upper-crust brats are the same. Unless you're going to _fine me_ or whatever, you can keep on walking, twinkle-toe princess." He turns back towards the wall, crouches, and shakes his spray paint can again.

Taken aback, Gamora blinks. "Excuse _you?_ What'd you call me? Who do you think you're talking to?"

"You must not be used to people speaking their mind to you, huh?" White paint outlines an abstract shape drawn on the wall and stains the tips of his fingers in the process.

"I'm very used it, for your information. That's no excuse."

"You're right, Ms. Zen Titan." He gets to his feet again, calmer this time but no less sarcastic. In an equally bitter and snarky tone, he adds, "I am _so very sorry_ that my artistic creation has _encroached_ on your high-brow lifestyle." It's punctuated by his hands waving, mockingly.

Gamora stands firm, unwavering and indifferent, a hip popped and her leggings glistening from stretch and the sunlight, and she catches the slightest slip of his cloth-mask and she calmly comments, "That's _my_ building, _dumbass._ "

* * *

**III.**

Gamora realizes he's her thief on their second encounter without pseudonyms, which happens to be their third encounter since her robbery.

Since their meeting beside his graffiti, she's made it her personal revenge to lay hotdogs, popcorn, pretzels snacks, peas, and bird seeds on the concrete every day where the man had been before. She trains the local birds to arrive at the presence of food, planning and prepping for her payback.

This revenge comes after a second run-in with Bareet, the gallery receptionist, and Gamora holds back the acidic words and sour taste, smiling through the woman's remarks about Gamora's parents and about how she'd always expected Gamora to follow in their footsteps instead of mooching off of their money, and then once taking in Gamora's ruffled sundress, Bareet makes a straight-faced remark about _Mexican women_ and fucking _tamales_. And to make it worse, Gamora catches the suspiciously familiar aged timepiece hanging from Bareet's neck just as she's leaving the self-checkout register.

In a last effort, Gamora grabs the woman's arm and demands to know where she got the necklace from. She isn't expecting the horror and near _offense_ Bareet gives.

"My boyfriend, Peter...at least I _think_ he's my boyfriend... Why?"

* * *

Not even a week later, the spray painter returns to finish his graffiti on the side of Gamora's apartment building, and she doesn't waste time confronting him.

The first thing she does is demand his name—to which he understandably scoffs at, lies, and says his name is _Chuck._

"You're _wearing_ Chuck's; you can't expect me to _believe_ that's your name."

"One could hope," his voice muffles behind his faux mask, returning to his task at hand.

Ignoring her unflattering presence of her _I'm Not Lazy, I'm Just On My Energy-Saving Mode_ pink night shirt and jogging capri pants and fuzzy slippers and a half-painted nails, she places hands on her hips and demands to know, "Bareet. She your girlfriend?"

He finally gives Gamora his full attention. "How do you _know_ her?" he asks incredulously.

"So, you two _are_ dating? Okay, where did the—"

"Was."

"What do you mean _'was'?_ " Her suspicion churns to anger.

"She—we broke up. What of it?"

Her anger decreases to apathetic. Gamora's arms fall and her hip slants. "So, she broke up with you, huh?" she asks calmly and very judgmental.

Peter stands to his feet. "Wait, how is any of this something _you_ know? What's any of this to you, dance princess?"

"Was she wearing a 19th century timepiece as a necklace, yes or no?"

"She had been, yeah. So what?"

"Did you give to her?"

Peter takes a moment to answer, slowly, like he's memorizing the enunciation on his tongue. "Yes."

And it's as if that singular word produces a _click_ that makes everything fall into place: it makes Gamora's face strewn up into a mixture of understanding and then _rage_ ; it makes Peter's slide into confusion followed by guilt and then a kind of _fear_ that can only be paralleled to fleeing a punishment by a parent or the police.

To citizens, all they would see as they stroll the sidewalk are two adults arguing beside a building, the woman suddenly jabs a finger and exclaim "It was you!" And the man guiltily raising his hands, failing to soothe the situation with a nonchalant "Now hold on for a minute." And if one were to glance away even for a moment after, one would completely miss the moment she dumps a large Ziplock bag full of seeds and sliced hotdogs and other foods all over the man, because once turning back all that would be seen are birds swarming around the man as the woman hurries back inside her home.

* * *

Canis and Azealia Zen Titan were once on every poster and billboard across the Caribbean. High school sweethearts, the two began dancing as fun, and just by chance, they were discovered by a talent searcher while dancing outside a repair shop to a Sharp cassette radio on the blanketed table, blasting music in the autumn heat.

After taken to The States, the pair skyrocketed to fame practically overnight.

Gamora was born at the height of their fame and she was the pearl of the media's eye, the charming daughter of the famous rhumba dancers, and seen mimicking her parents' dancing in home video clips.

The Zen Titans weren't A-list popular but they held their own. So much so that they were sure they wouldn't have to work another day in their lives or Gamora's life.

They were well-known enough that upon their premature deaths, they were mourned in places they hadn't even yet visited.

So much so that over twenty years after their deaths, they still live on—in memorabilia, in records, in the way the public has permanently tacked their reputation to the expectation about Gamora; to the way she never forgets them. There's a small framed family picture on entertainment center's shelves—a candid laughing photo of her parents, grandmother, and herself when she hadn't been much older than six. There's one of her grandparent's old home in the Caribbean, before moving to The States, hanging in her apartment's hallway. There's a Christmas photo somewhere in her junk closet.

With all of this in mind, it's understandable when she decides to run away, being under the media's eye too much to handle.

* * *

When Gamora shares the story about her and the graffiti artist with Nebula, she has to hold her phone away from her ear both when Nebula rebukes her sister's actions and then from Nebula's howls of laughter at the end of Gamora's retelling.

She rolls her eyes as she waits out Nebula's taunting and laughter. Nebula goes on about how Gamora always has the worst kind of luck, then leading into how her sister was captured, nearly barefaced, by paparazzi photos en route to an upscale organic supermarket and then sarcastically advises that Gamora could use a new kind of concealer that doesn't look wet in the heat.

Gamora retorts back that Nebula has no way to talk, accusing she'd "fled the country to Tahiti" because of the gossip and pictures circulated about Nebula threatening a man at pocket knifepoint. Although, at first, what the tabloids released were photographs and information purposely glossing over the fact that the incident had happened after the man stalked Nebula and repeatedly attempted to pressure her into sleeping with him, having the gall to "invite" the woman Nebula had been out with, an amateur local photography model.

"By the way," Gamora adds. "You have lots of supporters online. Most are in support for you starting your new _fugitive lifestyle._ " The title is only a joke about Nebula's current run-away location; she is setting up with her lawyer to sue her harasser. "I still don't think it's a good idea," Gamora's tone softens.

"That's what you always say. And yet—"

"I know." She inhales slowly, interrupting the other and carts a hand through her hair, internally regrets not for the first time that vile words were the last thing she'd spoken to her sister in-person. "I know. Just..." Sighs. "Be careful."

"Mmhm."

"Because you know you can't speak other languages. So, if you get stuck there don't expect me to come get you."

And she swears can _hear_ Nebula's eye roll.

" _Goodnight_ Gamora."

* * *

**IV.**

Gamora Zen Titan appears on a Hollywood news coverage report three weeks later. An airbrushed photo is used as the thumbnail on tv screens and for online articles instead of her mugshot. For what her arrest is for, the reports released what little information is given. Online and on social media, viewers have their own thoughts, assumptions, and theories: some think her arrest was because of some ignored downward spiral resulting from growing up on camera; others think she was another victim of profiling; still some are not forgetful of the Zen Titan's relations with Nebula Peale.

As it will turn out, Gamora is arrested on false claims of having relations with an organized crime organization led the felon nicknamed Thanos—false because the one who _had_ relations was her father, indirectly and through _a friend_ he actively, continuously pleaded to leave until his final days. Before his death, Canis Zen Titan had himself, his family, and future generations exonerated from any relationships with the crime organization. They are also the same group who murdered Gamora's father and mother by association of said friend—there isn't much evidence persuading that pointed but it's known through both the public and the Zen Titan family.

So, the media is quick to assume that Gamora's fallen back into relations with them, tacking on the sordid title that it's a "family business."

The headline is entirely, incredibly insulting.

Meanwhile, Nebula goes through with her harassment case and wins. The woman who'd been by her side, who's now Nebula's girlfriend—the model who dies her bleached hair a tint of green—is there with her throughout the entire process, serving as both support and witness.

Word spreads overnight about Gamora's arrest and her grandmother is the most disappointed of them all, convinced that Gamora has shamed the family.

Now in a confined facility filled with members who know her father's acclaimed "betrayal" of working to get his friend to leave the crime organization, all she can do is await her trial to go before a judge.

But then she catches a familiar figure through the barbed wire on the male side of the courtyard. And she curses under her breath, and then out loud when _he_ happens to glance and see her—and it's like a twisted version of _fate_ that he does, that they stare each other down.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Gamora murmurs, entering a co-opted rec rooms and _he's_ arguing with an inmate over opinions on music artists, a very short man who always has a beanpole-tall, considerably younger man at his side.

When the short man says the man towering over all of them is his son, Gamora doesn't believe him. Her evidence: their differing attitudes.

* * *

Luckily, for her, Gamora is sentenced to complete a month inside plus many, many hours of community service.

Of course, many are jealous over this. Ordered by her judge, Gamora is to continue the rest of her community service outside the prison. She pleads for protection, knowing she's exiting with even more enemies than when entering.

Even the men from the rec room—the short man who calls himself _Rocket_ and his son tragically named _Groot_ —were initially planning to sell her out to paparazzi or inmates who wanted revenge with rusted shanks, anything for a dollar or shortened sentence through connections.

But Gamora's celebrity status can only get her so far, and even that won't prevent her from being just another number, just another member within the group who are to report to their supervisor upon release and as they integrate back into society and completing the rest of their sentence.

Her sentence is lessened to a fine she easily pays off, having been in jail awaiting trial for nearly a month prior.

During one of her first scheduled meetings since leaving prison, she's assigned a "buddy" for community service, someone who she doesn't _have_ to look after and who won't affect the completion of her hours but is someone she will be seeing more due to being assigned to complete service at the same locations. The term "buddy" is applied very loosely and is only for comfort; the initial idea of the word sounds well-meaning but since Gamora is more of a loner, she despises it.

In line, the man she's grown to dislike—the man who stole her necklace and who she blames got her in this place—outright _laughs_ at the "buddy" idea. It's a bitter, sarcastic chuckle that's quickly followed by demeaning commentary and insults to the supervisor. He doesn't like the idea and thinks it should get a vote of approval like the system that threw him in here for petty theft crimes and caught for graffiti (not by Gamora, actually).

For the first time Gamora silently agrees with her thief.

And then she hates the rule even more when she's paired with him, the outspoken petty thief.

* * *

If this isn't procured by malevolent fate, it must be the cause of some damn cruel and sick sense of humor; a despised situation that Gamora actively tries to use her status to get out of the "buddy" rule, persuading that she has such a stressed and anxiety-ridden life that it would cause a normal person incredible stress.

Her supervisor ignores her.

* * *

**_V._ **

It starts like this:

Daughter of popular rhumba dancers, Gamora Zen Titan, is assigned to complete her punishment of community service at a secondhand store alongside a struggling artist and now petty thief with a bitter attitude, Peter Quill.

She finds out his name, finally, upon their first week of work, shocked that his name was something as simple as _'Peter'_.

"I don't know. I just expected something with more...pizzazz like Bruce, or Roman, or Loki."

" _Loki?_ " His nose wrinkles and he squints, pausing for a second from organizing donations in the back-storage room.

"Yeah. The Greek god of thievery or something, who's always running away because he's always causing trouble. The messenger guy."

Peter thinks for a moment. "That's Hermes."

"Same thing." She shrugs.

"No, it's not," he exclaims incredulously.

Via her court hearing, Gamora is ordered to serve eighteen months of community service and Peter is sentenced to serve one thousand hours but he's confident that the judge has a vendetta out for him and only applied that amount because there was nothing else holding Peter in debt but the several accounts of graffiti. By their service supervisor, they're assigned to work at a local secondhand store.

Their boss at the secondhand store is a supercilious college upper graduate who _swears_ she's an Anna-Sophia Rob lookalike, whose wardrobe consists entirely of sports logos and she styles her pin-straight blonde hair in the fashion imitating Ariana Grande. She eats everything organic, wears passion pink patches on her bookbag that match with her jewel-accented phone case. She expresses disapproval of Peter's sleeve of tattoos and makes Gamora her personal enemy after the latter doesn't amuse her passive-aggressive antics.

Their boss at the secondhand store seems to particularly enjoy bossing the two criminals around nearly as much as their service supervisor does. They're made to do large amounts of heavy lifting and are stationed in the rear storage and put on cleaning duty and are made to constantly run in and out of the dressing rooms for put-back clothes.

When it's shared that Peter's arrest was for several graffiti works and his petty theft was a personal vendetta attached by his judge, Gamora snickered. Preparing to tease back, Peter asked what her arrest was for. So, when Gamora revealed her unjust reason, he doesn't do a good job with teasing. Their boss at the secondhand store treats them snobbish, like criminals. But still, the two mostly ignore each other, make small talk when they aren't bickering, and check in with their community service supervisor biweekly.

And then four months later when their boss finds out that Peter is an artist, he gleefully takes the responsibility in creating eye-catching creations on large black chalkboards and positions them on the store's front sidewalk and social media. With his connections, he boosts the customer flow by ten percent by the second month of this responsibility.

He enjoys his work more than Gamora thinks he should, and has even spoken this on a particularly grouchy day. But as it turns out, Peter's familiar with similar retail occupations and confidently offers her for help. She doesn't take it, of course; Peter is the least grouchy of the two and is the more talkative. Although Gamora doesn't contribute the same when alone or with customers, she's inexplicably putting the "buddy" name to use.

Peter's skills are put to use. Gamora, however, doesn't seem to have any that are usefully and she feels the effects of it. She's forced to wear scratchy collared polo shirts and forced to deal with picky, ungrateful customers with unreasonable requests and mismatching products in sections, and she has nothing to say about the secondhand store except complaints.

It happens when she's helping to close the store for the day and no one notices they are being watched until she and two other employees are walking out into the parking lot and a group of adults leap from around the corner and approach Gamora with phones brandished and flashes blinding.

Secondhand employees and her coming Lyft forgotten, Gamora does what she's always done when faced with these situations: she takes off running.

And like the irksome act of fate who thinks it's still utterly hilarious to cause more misfortune, Gamora collides into Peter, knocking bottles of glass metallic acrylic paint bottles, stained glass squares, and charcoal sticks from his arms. She promises to buy it all again for him before he formulates a complaint.

The group of paparazzi and photographers near closer. Gamora shows her belly and asks for him for a getaway ride.

Peter decides to be a little shit about it and unlocks the door at the very last second: to the car he had been walking to.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**_V._ **

Peter's car is an old, beaten 1990 Jeep Wrangler. It growls and rumbles when it starts. The interior smells like chalk, orange peel, and aged leather. It isn't his, he reveals almost instantly or as a defense, nodding his head in Gamora's direction and catching a glance as he zooms through a yellow traffic light.

"It's my sister's."

Gamora couldn't care less—this she sighs as she catches her breath, eyes closed and head tossed back against the cracked headrest. Then she registers what he'd said.

"Wait—I didn't know you had a sister."

He nods. "Yeah...she's cool." With one hand on the steering wheel, his other momentarily squeezes his nostrils, preventing a sneeze.

They ride in silence through rests at three red lights. That's when Gamora notices the tiny sticker in the corner of the front windshield window is the same as the small yellow flame-shaped pendant dangling from a beaded chain around his rearview window.

"What's this?" She reaches for the yellow badge. Not receiving an answer, she goes back to the previous topic: his sister. "Don't talk to your sister much?"

"Not since she moved," he's quick to answer, and if Gamora didn't know any better, she would suspect he's jealous. As if an afterthought, Peter adds, "To Tahiti, I think it was."

"And she left this...vehicle with you?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. It's the least she could do."

"What does that mean?" She looks to him for the first time while in the car.

His nose scrunches. "Where was it that you said you needed to go, again?"

"Away." She settles into the worn seat. "I just need to get away. If I wasn't...chained down with this _stupid charge_...This is your fault, you know." Her eyes close.

"Sure it is."

"If you hadn't stolen—"

" _Stolen?_ Look, lady, I just saved your butt. You're in _my_ car—remember—needing a ride from _me_."

"I thought this was your sister's car."

"You—" He heavily exhales through his nose. "I will leave you—here—on the side of the road and you'll have to walk to—to that Auto shop there or that _deli_ for a ride!"

"So, you _don't_ want your art supplies?"

Peter huffs, seriously contemplating that decision. "Those supplies were over two hundred dollars. Do you have that kind of money?" Then he realizes what he'd just said and to _whom_ and he scoffs.

At the same time, Gamora calmly answers, "And I could take you to Tahiti, too, you know."

"I'll add that on to your list of favors. The one made when we were doing that night shift. The one right before that group of college kids came in needing a new rug because fucked up someone's parents. Where we played that Scrabble-like game on the white board and you promised an iWatch," he begins in a singsong voice, "and fancy ale and one I.O.U."

"I was nowhere serious about that before."

"Oh, come one, Gamora. But you'll do Tahiti?"

"Because it's easy—I can just drop you off there."

"Cold, lady. Cold. You were lots more fun then at the secondhand store."

Gamora rolls her eyes.

"Remember that afternoon? Katie's old boss came in and she started freaking out because she remembered hooking up with him when she was off her ass?" Katie is their manager at the secondhand store. "You said you'd do the favors if you laughed and you laughed then!"

"Doesn't mean I meant it."

"But you still laughed." He starts to grin.

At that moment the car chokes, sputters, begins to break down and slows to stop in the middle of the road. Peter is able to coax it to a parking lot nearby.

* * *

Peter is able to convince a tow truck to arrive in thirty minutes and drop them off at a mechanic. But realizing he's low on funds, Gamora pays the fees on the trip to the mechanic.

During the ride Peter asks where she is planning on being dropped off, noticing she didn't speak her request.

She shifts her posture in the soft backseat cushions and answers, without looking away from the window, "To your house. It's not like I can necessarily go home right now. Some of those stalkers know where I live."

"Wait, _my house?_ "

"Yeah." She glances at him then back to the window. "I paid for your car and if I _feel_ like it, the final cost after the mechanic. The least you can do for me in return is this." Her voice lowers now: "And consider this us being even."

Beside her, Peter frowns, but he isn't mad and he knows he can't object lest he has to finally sell his sister's car for parts.

"How do you know I have a _house?_ " he breaks the silence.

"You mentioned it before." She speaks like it's common knowledge. "I don't remember when."

* * *

Peter indeed lives in a house but it's much smaller than Gamora expects it to be.

They pull up into the driveway of a small one-floor house in a quiet neighborhood where the lawn mower could be used more and a tree to be cleared. The house isn't new either, Gamora also notices, and is far from impressed when Peter tells her to wait on the doorstep for two minutes while he slinks inside, suspiciously.

Looking at the exterior, there are a few things that stick out to her about this house: the decorative bars on the windows, the camera inside the bird house that she doesn't notice until right when Peter opens the door—slightly out of breath and flustered. He had taken longer than two minutes. The floors are an aged, warped cheap wood that squeals underfoot but which Peter must have adjusted to walk soundlessly across. The house smells of vanilla and sweet scents—the air fresheners plugged into the wall outlets. All the windows are drawn. The kitchen floor is tile, the ceramic countertops and it still holds a slight woody scent. Peter grabs an orange from a bowl centered on a small table, immediately peeling it. Gamora recognizes its orange smell from the car.

"Well," he starts. "This is it. It's not as _fancy_ as yours, but just don't put it on the Gram or Snapchat. This place shouldn't be known. ...I shouldn't even have brought you here."

"The private artist type, huh?"

He thinks for a moment. "Sure, if that helps you sleep at night."

Gamora rightfully shoots him a questioning stare.

But Peter just shrugs. Puts an entire orange wedge in his mouth. "The sofas pull out. There are blankets in the closet near the laundry room. Go wild. Just don't go into any of the bedrooms."

"And why not?"

"One's my sister's. It stays the exact same way she leaves it until she gets back or else she'll have a cow. The other one is mine. Good? I'll be in my workshop. And _no one can know about this place_ ," he calls over his shoulder as he leaves down a hallway.

Gamora folds her arms.

* * *

His "workplace" is the crowded garage located at the furthest side of the house. Gamora finds it on her second day there and because she's bored and awoken at two in the afternoon and he's now out of cereal.

She barges in unexpectedly and catches him wearing a dust mask, covered from his elbows to his pants in paint. He looks startled when she finds him; he looks _guilty_ as she begins surveying the room.

"Interesting _office_ you got here Mister Artist," she muses, leisurely strolling inside, passing a framed painting of vase a of wilting flowers; of photograph film strips nailed to the wall, mostly of him and the model from the _"Mantis leaves"_ portrait. "You know...when you mentioned you were an artist, I thought it was going to be the sad, depressing type. Like those naked portraits, or those horrendous exaggerated animal pictures, or paint splatters that a child could make, or more ugly graffiti." She lingers on a collection of twisted, deformed blown-glass figures forgotten and crowding a shelf. "But most of this...is actually _really good_. By the way, you're out of cereal. I ate it."

Peter gets to his feet, attentive and trying to gauge her reactions. "Is this one of your nice, sweet personas you use for the camera right now?"

"One, there is no _persona_. I only _smile_ at the camera. Everything else is real. Everything here is the real deal." Her finger encircles her face.

"So, all those fights and crude magazine photos are the real you? They aren't staged?" He grins.

"It's all me," she smiles, shaking her head. "But these," she motions to the failed glass figures. "These are terrible."

"Hey, those are...works in progress," he feebly defends.

If he were to be honest, it's a relief to know—and from the source, from _her_ —this truth. So, Peter's passive aggression drops a little bit at this.

Canvases piled against each other en masse lean against one wall, a binder filled with papers lie next to it—containing jester drawings, outlined portraits, sketched profiles. Along a wall are stacks of collected newspapers. A bookshelf—hand-assembled and crowded—occupied by pencil holders, kneaded erasers, shards of glass, and other misplaced and eventually forgotten things needing a quick home. The garage is messy and largely unorganized materials grouped together in various places.

Gamora strolls closer to see his progress, careful not to step on fallen paint gathered on the newspaper. What he's done is a half-accomplished impressionistic landscape painting: a crystal blue lake encircled by golden flowers and viridian green grass, a multicolored sky, and bubbles accenting the far corners of the canvas and the lake's surface.

Gamora's awe isn't verbally revealed but her face gives it away.

"I'm a little better with paints and watercolor then...those _works in progress_ ," he admits.

Still focused on the large canvas, she asks, "Where'd you get the idea for this?"

But Peter would rather change the subject than yet talk about something so personal, so he ignores her and instead asks, "What were you saying about cereal?"

* * *

The next time she and Peter are together, it's forty minutes later at his small dinner table. He offers to make one of his _signature five-stack sandwiches_ if Gamora were to fill their time with talk: stories, rants, _gossip_ —the last which he's a little _too_ eager to know. Gamora set on answering any of his questions and revealing what it's like to be in the spotlight.

"It's a type of hell that belongs in Dante's Inferno. The amount of pressure, creeps, stalkers, it's..."

"You don't like the attention? I thought you lived for that."

"You fell for the lie too, didn't you? Just because someone smiles at the camera doesn't mean she's _enjoying_ herself. And the attention was something I was used to but...the _expectations_ is the worse."

Peter hadn't added his opinion then, choosing to think of his words instead. Peppers and onions sauté in the pan in front of him.

When he does speak, it's seven minutes later and Gamora is scrolling through her phone.

"Before, you mentioned expectations. So...what you mean by that is—"

"Always having to act for other people and be a character that they would like...until realizing that that being that person never made _me_ happy."

"So that character," Peter spreads condiments on slices of rye bread. "Who's the _real_ Gamora?"

She thinks it over for some time. And then some more time. And then, finally, she curses aloud at something read on her phone. She ignores the thick sandwich Peter places in front of her and frantically demands for him to turn on his television.

The television remote is found in time to catch E! News talking about Gamora's community service, it turning out that one of the ones who ran her away from her Lyft the day she caught a ride from Peter ended up selling pictures of her to magazines. The reporters criticize Gamora's uniform, her sentence cause and her current predicament. Luckily—for Peter at least—no one gets a clear photo revealing Peter's license plate. As the brief coverage ends, the second reporter at the small table denounces Gamora, about how she had bene invited to perform on two dance competitions, one of them the dreaded _Dancing With The Stars_ ; the reporter insinuates that her current community service puts a dent in any hope of competition due to time and declining reputation.

When the reported stories change, Gamora snatches up the remote, clicks the television off, fumes, and resists the urge to hurl the device across the room.

What feels like a breath later but what is really much longer Peter murmurs, "Is this the _expectations_ you were talking about?"

And she doesn't nod, doesn't sneer or curse, but just keeps her fingers knotted over her mouth. "I hate it. I hate it so much. I want to just... Sometimes I just want to _leave_ and never come back."

And understanding—he doesn't, but he empathizes, he really does—Peter replies with absolutely zero forethought, "Why don't you? Like, you have the money, the—everything."

For one of few times, Gamora looks to him and doesn't have a witty comeback or criticism or urge to say how _stupid_ or _near-sighted_ or _irresponsible_ his suggestion had been. She doesn't have anything to say because he's right.

* * *

All over social media, most of anything mentioning Gamora is about her lightened sentence, accusing of celebrity privilege, and of wanting to see her dance on camera.

She stays at Peter's for the rest of the day, watching him work on his commission until he says that her constant surveillance is too distracting and she's kicked out the garage "office."

From the third day through the seventh, they return to work the secondhand store, check in with their probation supervisor, and Gamora checks into a hotel for the next two weeks. During community service, their moods have changed. Sure, their boss is still shoveling most of the workload onto the two, but now Gamora and Peter don't quite _mind_ being around and talking with each other anymore. Their presence is appreciated and it's figured that it _isn't that bad_. Gamora and Peter aren't friends but there is definitely something there.

On the next day they see each other, they spend a day at his home playing games including Chutes And Latters while sharing stories about their childhoods: Gamora of her grandmother and what she remembers of her parents and recalling when Nebula lived with them while growing up after her own family were murdered too; Peter of his mother, her claims about his artistic abilities originating paternally, of being kidnapped after her death and then rescued and then eventually adopted by the head of a gang of clamorous but also artist bikers, The Ravagers, who fueled his art, and then of finding his long-lost sister. Gamora finds out that his sister is an amateur photography model and is the same Asian woman she'd seen posing in the _"Mantis leaves"_ portrait. She asks about his sleeve of tattoos from his wrist to his shoulder blade. The two also play raunchy rounds of Cards Against Humanity and standard playing cards and it ends with a newfound fondness developed between each other.

After, Gamora watches more of the news, checks the surveillance at her home building. Peter reveals more about his art and background, finishes his commission and sells it.

A week later they spend their twentieth day cooking in Peter's kitchen, they check the news and skip out to a joyride under the guise of conspicuously large sunglasses and tacky baseball caps and oversized shirts ponytailed and tucked in the front. They eventually go to a nearby lake but an hour in, they get into an argument and she storms off, readying to leave but forgetting that there is still a crowd outside her home. Peter reminds that she needs to retrieve her belongings from his house before she leaves for her hotel. They ride back in fuming silence. Prideful apologizes are whispered under breath and they eventually fall asleep on the couch while sharing chocolate liquor.

On the twenty-eighth day, they sway across the kitchen floor because he _bugs her_ to show him "a few dancing moves," then tries to persuade her to enter into those dancing competitions to enact revenge on the E! reporters. She disagrees, as wistfully expected. Her displeasure is cut off by Peter's sister phoning him from Tahiti.

On the thirty-fourth day, Gamora spends the night over after drinking themselves to sleep again. She enters the garage early that following morning. It's more pungent with charcoal dust and oil paints and wood than metal, gasoline, or any of the expected scents. When she walks in, he doesn't realize she is there, too focused on his latest project. His tool moving across the canvas is the only sound heard; Gamora pays extra attention to not make a noise as she explores. She accomplishes it remarkably well until it breaks dreadfully, drastically, dramatically when she comes across a discarded canvas between two paintings—it's a portrait sketch of a woman. A familiar woman.

"Is this...is this _me?_ " Her voice rings out in the echoing quiet.

It's broken only by Peter's stool scraping across the hard flooring and him cursing. His tool dropping to the floor. The absurd resounding of his guilt that Gamora can _hear_ before she turns around and looks at him.

There are a lot of emotions Peter has displayed to her, for her: distaste, distrust, indifference, confusion, conniving, even ardor, eventually. But _fear?_ —fear is one never seen and it distracts her in that following split second more than the half-painted portrait she found.

And for his next reaction, Peter cries for her to get away from the hidden canvas. He then attempts to berate her for entering the garage and disrupting his concentration flow. Gamora holds on to that fear in his eyes, points it out, and demands to know the origin of the painting. Naturally, she snaps—full of suspicion and feeling violated and _lied to_ —if he's been watching her while she slept or had a secret stash of candids taken, or if she's a part of his goddamn _spank bank_. While talking, she grows angrier than he anticipates.

She doesn't remember seeing the portrait many months ago.

Peter is quick to defend—suspiciously so, Gamora thinks—and denies each of her allegations but isn't given breathing room to explain further. She's rightfully angry, he realizes—after being invited into his home, opening up and maybe even beginning to _trust_ him despite their rocky beginning and hating each other during probation, she finds out his old unfinished painting.

Gamora fires one accusation after another. So, when Peter finally gets out that he used to sketch people for money and she had been one of his clients, it's amidst raised voices and him waving his hands. Then she goes quiet.

"That's _preposterous_ —"

"That coffee shop you used to go to with some woman from—I don't know—probably your _Pilates_ class or whatever." He lists off facts that have been burned into his memory. "You went there, like, every other day and one day you asked me to do a little drawing for you—for your friend, something on a napkin. You liked it so much you asked me to do one of you. I was able to finish it halfway with you there but you never came back to get it finished, and soon after I wasn't able to keep coming back to that shop anyway. So I, uh, looked up pictures of you in order to finish it myself." His head tilts downward. His voice lowers to normal volume with every sentence.

She takes a moment to process it all. "How did you," she begins. Stops. Backtracks. Starts again. "How did you _remember_ —"

"You were a regular at the time, like I said. Plus, you don't easily forget when a _celebrity_ walks into a _coffee shop_."

"I'm not a—I'm not, like, Octavia Spencer famous. I'm like...third rate." She doesn't realize the self-criticism and negativity and her true feelings seeping into her words until it's too late, but it's already spoken so she doesn't hold back. "D-rate, if anything."

"Definitely D-rate," Peter jokes—incredibly, in this situation. "D for dynamite gal."

Gamora lowers her chin. A smile, small but noticeable, begins to grow. "Wow..."

A calm moment is shared and the room is filled with tranquility and trust that doesn't possess any of the previously felt antipathy and they're both able to be as unrefined and real without the walls from before.

The portrait is pulled out into the open to show a half-painted face, the charcoal outline underneath sketches out the rest of the portrait and the outlined backdrop with lightly-written-in notes, her shoulders and chest still needing definition. Written tiny and in the corner with a pencil, he's practiced his signature to paint over the finished product: it reads "Star Lord."

* * *

On day fifty-second, she's invited to a biker's bar because Peter insists that no one there will bombard her with cameras and picture requests.

On day sixty-six she wants to be shown his collection and is taken to the gallery that holds most of his works. There, Gamora compliments that he could make it into an art show or museum eventually. Downcast, Peter reveals that he's been banned from the large local gallery for his affiliations with The Ravagers, the curator having a bad history with one of the members who used his needle embroidery to deliver a rude and mocking message.

On the seventy-second day, Mantis calls and alerts that in two days she will be bringing a "very special person" for Peter to meet. It is entirely unexpected that the special person is Nebula—which Gamora finds out that cloudless day as she's taking a nap on the grass in Peter's backyard when Nebula and Mantis stand over her, blocking out the sun. Gamora also finds that Mantis is very direct, blunt, and affectionate.

Unprepared, Peter hastily introduces Mantis to Gamora and he's cut off by Nebula asking Gamora, "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Gamora stands to her feet, brushing off the grass from her denim pants. "Like, why aren't you in Tahiti, for one."

"Because from what I saw on the _television_ you needed me to bail _you_ out."

"Yeah, maybe _three months ago_ but I got it handled myself. You know, like most things—"

"By doing community service?" Nebula sneers.

"Like that's a bad thing—?"

"Or like that time you were seen throwing your drink at that guy? What was his name? Oh, yeah, Drax?"

Gamora glares. Sucks in her lip. "He about to throw a _weight_ through a _car window_."

"It was _his own_ car."

"Yeah, found that out _after_ ," Gamora sighs, rolling her eyes and ignoring the looks shared by both Peter and Nebula's girlfriend. "He's still psychotic."

"You did _what_ now?" he comments but neither woman acknowledges him.

"It's whatever. We met him during our trip—"

"Drax was very nice company," Mantis pipes in and Nebula doesn't roll her eyes _too_ noticeably. "After he got all his criticism out of his system..."

"If you say so." Nebula then directs to her adoptive sister: "Have you even spoken with Grandma Carina since all of this?"

Gamora squints taking offense and _knowing_ that Nebula knows that her grandmother disapproves of her alleged crime affiliations. "You know I haven't."

"Because now _you're_ the disappointment?"

"Don't blame me for _your_ decisions—"

"Does anyone want drinks?" Peter jumps in, verbally and literally, putting a foot between both women, wearing a forceful smile, attempting to lower the suddenly high tension and change the subject. "Gamora bought some really expensive liquor the other day and I've been _waiting_ to crack it open. Plus, there's some people coming over for me and Mantis, so do you lovely ladies—"

Nebula fixes him with a death glare that could pierce metal.

Peter silences and steps back.

Mantis is the one who ends the tension, jumping in after him, grabbing Nebula's forearm and stepping in between her and Gamora, and answering to her brother, "Is it better than a Lava Flow cocktail?" with a broad smile.

* * *

**VI.**

The type of gallery Peter was banned from is located in the heart of the city. It's enormous, immaculate; rows and rows of Grecian snow-white marble columns and a large abstract spiral sculpture beside its twelve-foot cherry-red entry door and a tall, ten-foot replica of Umberto Boccioni's Unique Forms of Continuity in Space in the middle of a lush front lawn. Tendrils of ivy are purposely grown to wind around its further upper floor windows. Eroded bust sculptures carved in the corners of the building, overlooking luscious foliage around baby's breath, petunias, and violets wrapping around the building. Inside, the floors are also marble, checkered in grey and white. The front desk is fashioned out of real East Indian Rosewood and stands beside a waist-height statue of a Roman goddess, and the gift shop—found around the corner—doesn't sell anything below $37. It's the kind of place where the talented and wealthy come and do auctions, host closed-door/invite parties where they talk about things unimportant, things that don't really matter, while surrounding themselves with art they could never do but it makes them feel wealthy knowing it can be purchased.

It's the type of place Peter always dreamed to be featured in.

It's the type of place Gamora knows he would never be able to get into.

At least, not alone.

Tonight, a fundraiser and auction are being held there that Gamora knows she can get into due to a favor. When she finds out about it, she alerts Peter—only after convincing him to go which required surprisingly little effort. Then, the two devise a plan to integrate one of Peter's work in with those displayed, therefore getting his name known.

Approaching the stone steps to entry, Gamora asks him again, "You ready?"

"Nope," he replies, flatly.

"Well, better get ready."

The glass doors open and they are immediately met with an overflowing scene of affluence. There are more people than Peter expected there to be. The lobby—the whole building, actually, reeks of the too clean, too crisp air that can be just as easily mistaken as being as faux as the forced greetings and tight smiles the couple returns to everyone passing. Peter fidgets with his cufflinks during their first introduction. He puts on a convincing persona by the third conversation. It's agreed that his identity as an artist to be withheld the entire time.

On top of being technically convicted persons, Gamora and Peter are excellent _liars_. Fabricating fake lives, fake histories, and fake bank amounts in a matter of seconds, and before even an hour has passed by, they become the fabulous art collector duo, Ms. Bambi Long and Mr. Kevin Boyo, just breezing through town because their plane to Tahiti was rescheduled. And they look surprisingly in place despite not feeling so and making fun of the attendees around rims of crystal glasses—Gamora is as cool and adjustable as ever, gaze steady and gliding through one lie after another with ease, with a slant in her posture so deliberately casual. And Peter is nearly equally faultless, black suit and tie, slicked-back hair and an original, welded pin he wears on his jacket's breast—it was made and jeweled by Mantis with much help from a Ravager member many years ago.

The duo appear untouchable, just as flashy and fake as the attendees they laugh with over food and brochures informing the art and artists. That is, until it's time for the auction. And still, luck seems to be on their side.

Until Peter's piece is purchased by a man who drastically out-bids a woman offering three grand, and who is adamant on meeting the artist. And it wouldn't be as mortifying as it is if Peter hadn't let it slip that he has connections—"from a friend of an acquaintance"—that he has contact with the painter. The painting in question is the impressionistic landscape of vibrant colors and bubbles accents.

Gamora's facade nearly cracks before she catches herself, the man approaching Peter at her side and very confidently introduces himself, bushy gray beard emphasized by his suit. His presence is loud and large, feeling like it engulfs the entire room, no, building. Gamora practically swallows her tongue when he tells how the painting "Took my breath away" and about its uncanny resemblance to _something_ he's done—Gamora is so mortified.

As if reading their hesitance, the man juts a large hand out, grabs Peter's in a remarkably firm grip, and tells that his name is J'Son Angel. While Gamora looks mostly calm, Peter is skeptical and shares that he "Isn't sure the artist would like to be known outside of name-wise, for now." But J'Son insists, sharing that this painting is ripped straight from a continuous dream about a bizarre planet that he's never told a soul about.

"Please," the older man insists, delicately cradling Gamora's hand. "And you can tell him that Ego wants to know, to keep things anonymous on all sides if that makes it better."

It must be either the alcohol nursed minutes before or the near intoxicating bewitchment that Mr. Angel—"Ego, call me Ego. Not Angel. No one is being taken to cloud sixty-nine tonight," he chuckles—that Ego has because, before Gamora can _think_ properly or calculate an appropriate reaction, Peter is handing the man—"Ego, call me Ego. It was an old kid nickname and it stuck, ringing true"—Peter is handing Ego a business card that Gamora has never seen nor even knew Peter _owned_. And it's like watching in slow motion: Peter telling that he's the painter while wearing a wry smirk, or Ego's gradual facial expressions changing from unconvinced to belief to excitement. Of both men shaking hands again, more enthusiastically. Of Ego throwing a heavy hand around Peter's shoulders, giving a hard pat, and that's when it _hits_ Gamora like a goddamn freight train—as both men smile, wide and toothy. It's like looking into a time warped funhouse mirror.

Before she notices, her glass slips from her hand and she's pulling Peter away with a lie that they need to discuss "couple things" and a quick breath of thanks for Ego catching her glass midair.

When they are well away from Ego’s ear, Gamora asks Peter, panting like she’s just ran, “Remind me about that thing you said your mother used to talk about? About that man she was so in love with? Your father?”

* * *

Weeks later the duo appear on a televised competition.

On the side of a dance floor, a woman holds a mic and recaps the previous dance performance to a camera shouldered by a man wearing a large parka jacket. The woman’s arms are bare, save for the thin sleeves of her slim dress. It’s obvious that she’s inwardly cursing this entire event and her wardrobe manager.To viewers at home, the dance competition is on its first round. Within it are twelve dancing pairs. The ultimate goal is a cash prize. But others, like Gamora, the money is not a factor—she spoke this into the camera during her introduction, not giving it a thought before speaking. Now, backstage, she refuses to let her partner's ruined mood ruin her chances, because even though the money is not a concern for Gamora, she doesn't like to _lose_. Peter knows this by now. He knows this very much.

"I _said_ I will make it up to you," she hisses, inserting a diamond stud into her fourth earring hole. Runs hands down the short skirt of her shimmering cerulean blue dress. Checks for lipstick on her teeth. Presses her lips into a folded napkin, ridding excess. Tosses her tresses over her shoulder and _glares_ at Peter in the mirror. "Now will you _suck it up_ so you don't make us _lose?_ "

Peter sucks his teeth and turns away.

On the small television screen in their dressing room, they can see the performance happening outside the same way that viewers at home are watching. Currently, there is a pair who call themselves "Valkyrie and Thunder" dancing to a very difficult but also very sensual mix of tango and salsa. Gamora watches their footsteps, the way they match each other's mood, the way the man, "Thunder," lifts his partner into the air and the way she seems to _glide_ in the air. How the lightning crew _perfectly_ time a faux lightning flash with "Valkyrie" embracing "Thunder."

In her dressing room, Gamora heaves a sigh as the camera changes to a previously filmed footage: a friend of "Valkyrie's," the captions reads, an aerial dancer named Hope Van Dyne who vocalizes confidence that "Valkyrie" will win from having witnessing the dancer's talent for years.

Sensing Gamora's nerves, Peter calls for his partner. Wishing to divert her attention, he turns off the television and encourages her to rehearse together one final time.

They walk out on the dancefloor hand in hand. Their dance isn't as intimate as the previous duo but they do pass with satisfactory marks. Out of earshot, the recappers give a passing side comment about Gamora actually showing up and still being a competent dancer although not dancing professionally in front of a camera for years. They criticize her partner, Peter, who is basically a no-body to the Hollywood world and who trips up on one of his feet moves, then freestyles. Luckily for them, his freestyle earns them three extra points that push them into the next round.

Neither are aware of Nebula, Mantis, and Drax cheering them (and criticizing) them on in the crowd. Later after it all, they will be congratulated by Rocket and Groot in a bar hosting illegal animal fights.

Back in their dressing room, Gamora and Peter embrace in relief. The hug is comforting but only adds temporary ease—especially after watching their small television and seeing who performs after them. Dancers hailing from African royalty and dressed in excruciatingly expensive purple garments enter the dance floor.

"We've got our shit cut out for us," Gamora mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first story I have written for any of the Guardians. How did I do?

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this AU would be good to insert them into and I thought if anyone was to be an artist, it might be Peter. Mantis is a model. Both Nebula and Gamora have a history in dancing.


End file.
